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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Quiet Morning

As usual, I am up early on Christmas morning. I woke up with the storm and now I am listening to the rain and cuddling with Charlie, my schnoodle who is afraid of storms. Soon the hustle and bustle of opening gifts and eating dinner with family will interrupt this silence. We need both, silence and noise.

Last night at the Christmas Eve service, we had quiet prayer and joyous hymns. I love singing at Christmas time because I know all the words and all the alto parts. Having all three girls home makes the house loud and busy. I love this, too.

But the quiet is where I find God. This early morning Christmas, I pray for the families of Sandy Hook victims. May they find peace. I remember those who are absent from our own family. And I pray that this day will fill our hearts with enough love to block out all the evil in this world.

I have given myself a writing challenge this season. My father has been creating a Christmas card each year for the last 9 years. I have the collection on display. I am attempting to write a poem for each one. Inside each card, he wrote a biblical message. I use this message as an epigraph.

John Gibson, 2008

John Gibson, 2008

Out of Egypt

“Out of Egypt I have called my Son.”

Out of
the cool dark night
in the midst
of old tales,
myths of Egypt,
land of Kings,
I hear His voice–
a whisper–Go.
Take my Son,
Embrace hope.
Go.

–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

Read other Slice of Life writers at The Two Writing Teachers

Read other Slice of Life writers at The Two Writing Teachers

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Heidi is hosting today.

Heidi is hosting today.

Artwork by John Gibson, 2012

Artwork by John Gibson, 2012

“Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”

The light
circles
like a ripple in calm water.

Brighter
than morning sun,
this evening star beams

Illuminating
dust particles to dance
around his little head.

He nurses,
content and strong,
pulling my heart.

-Margaret Simon, all rights reserved.

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Join Jama at Alphabet Soup for more of Poetry Friday.

Join Jama at Alphabet Soup for more of Poetry Friday.

At this time of year, the days grow shorter, the weather cooler. In a recent e-newsletter from Poets.org, I found a lesson plan designed for 9th-12th graders about exploring darkness and light through poetry. I teach gifted elementary kids, so I adapted the plan somewhat to fit my level of students. But I kept Emily Dickinson’s poem There’s a Certain Slant of Light. The poem is presented on Poem Flow in which a few words appear on the screen and fade out to the next lines. This technology added interest to the lesson. My students didn’t quite “get” the message of the poem, but they learned about the sound of poetry. We talked about some of our “wonder” words, like heft, affliction, and oppression.

Before presenting the Dickinson poem, I turned off the lights and we wrote words and phrases that we thought of in the dark. Then they chose words they wanted to “steal” from Emily Dickinson. Then we wrote. Each time we write, we share. We have a class Kidblog site, so they post to it. Since I travel between two schools, this allows my students to read and comment on writing from another school’s gifted class.

Some of our poems were coming out pretty spooky and dark. OK, I know I set that up with turning out the lights and reading There’s a Certain Slant of Light, but I challenged myself to write a happy poem. I was pleased with my poem that the students helped me title “Silhouettes.”

Silhouettes

We turn out the lights
Behind sheets, our hands
Make shapes–a story,
a dance,
a play–
No audience
No stage
No flashing lights
Just my brother and me
on a winter afternoon.

Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

One of my students wrote a short piece with a repeating line, so when I conferred with him, I taught him about the Pantoum form in which the second and fourth line becomes the first and third of the next stanza. This is his revised poem:

Winter (A Pantoum)
This is darkness, the black, blurry time of the year.
It blinds me in sadness.
Its dull appearance gives me the blues.
This is darkness, the black, blurry time of the year.

Darkness blinds me in sadness.
Cobwebs surround me.
This is darkness, the black, blurry time of the year.
Shadows everywhere.

Cobwebs surround me.
Tiny bits of light make creepy reflections on the floor.
Shadows everywhere.
This is darkness.
–Matthew

I have a new student who is a third grader. I have gently drawn her into our writing circle. She is shy, yet confident. When she wrote the following poem, it had 3 rhyming lines, but no others, so I talked to her about making a decision in her revision. She could keep the rhyming lines, but since we expect the poem to rhyme, she would need to make some of the other lines rhyme. She decided not to keep the rhyming words and went to the thesaurus to revise. I think she is quickly getting the hang of writing workshop. Here is her revision:

Winter Glory

The winter woods can be glowing

even though you are afraid.

The bright sun shines from behind.

The cold dark woods are sometimes gloomy.

The squirrels are scurrying for the last nut.

I am blinded by the beauty.

–Vannisa

Photo by Clare L. Martin
Vannisa’s inspiration came from this photograph.

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Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

As a fundraiser for the Festival of Words, Darrell Bourque, former Louisiana state poet laureate, offered a master class. I submitted 3 poems and was accepted. Twelve poets gathered in Darrell’s home on Saturday afternoon. His house is set in a grove of bamboo. To get to the house, you walk through a shaded garden, enter a beautiful courtyard then into his art-filled home. I immediately relaxed and felt welcome.

Once the others arrived, Darrell quickly began teaching. I’ve known Darrell for more than 15 years. I’ve taken a number of workshops with him, but this was different. While I missed the interchange of ideas of the workshop style, I adjusted to just listening. His knowledge did not intimidate me as I expected. Instead, I understood. I followed. I wrote notes. I was a student and a poet.

He started off by telling us that there are no mistakes. He compared writing a poem to making a quilt. You get all the pieces laid out, and then you can move them around until a new pattern emerges. He challenged us to look for a pattern.

He took each person’s heart out, held it up to the light, and shaped it into something more beautiful, more glowing.

In an email to us all on Sunday, Darrell wrote this verse about this group of poets:

Brushing a child’s hair,
sitting by a powerful river,
taking a lunch break and really listening while being at work,
seeing angels,
standing next to sleeping Gypsies,
traveling toward the beloved,
salvaging the essential after rupture,
letting footsteps become prayers,
searching for traiteurs and medicine men,
sewing a new seam,
visiting monasteries,
standing in the presence of natural wonder
or grieving for a lost child—
these are all common experiences which you made extraordinary by your making them a part of your most essential human experiences. I thank you heartily and I wish you all continued good luck.

To show the results of Darrell’s shaping, I am posting one of my poems in both versions. He found the pattern of commands to make my poem-quilt clearer, stronger, and just plain better.

After the Storm (version 1)
If you want to study the skeletons of frogs,
take a walk after the storm when the sun comes up.
Listen to mockingbirds sing, high-pitched, discordant.
Walk the path of fallen limbs, clustered leaf-puddles.
We are washed yet still unclean. New day sun breaks
deepening the green, solid, and strong earth. Red spots
glitter after I glance at the spotlight. God’s eyes
peak through the ghost of a waning moon. Wren gathers
twigs for nesting, flutters off like a thief with goods.
No need for imagination here; all life breathes.
The beat of my footsteps become my prayer.

After the Storm (Darrell’s reshaping)
Study the skeletons of frogs.
Take a walk in the light after the storm.
Listen to mockingbirds in discordant songs.
See the sun deepening the green earth.
Glance at the sun; see the red spots glitter.
Peak through the ghost of a waning moon.
Gather twigs for nesting; become the wren.
Flutter off like a thief with his stolen goods.
Imagine nothing; all life breathes.
Let my footsteps become prayers.

After a storm, resurrection fern fluffs up and becomes a green blanket on the live oaks.

After a storm, resurrection fern fluffs up and becomes a green blanket on the live oaks.

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Thanks to Robyn Hood Black for hosting Poetry Friday today.

Thanks to Robyn Hood Black for hosting Poetry Friday today.

Prepositions were on parade in my class this week. We brainstormed a list of prepositions. The list grew to 50 words. Wow! Who knew there were so many?

Students wrote poems in which each line began with a preposition. To help our readers along, we decided the title should give a clue to the theme. Students experienced through practice how to use prepositions, and it was fun.

Mother Nature

From the high branch
of that cypress tree
beyond the flowing bayou
near a wading heron
through the slightest breeze
toward my longing heart
upon this lonely landscape
for eternity.
—Margaret Simon, all rights reserved.

My Rainbow

under the setting sun
across the ocean
with rays of light
through the oak trees
over the valleys
to the depths of the bayou
through my heart.
—Emily, 2nd grade

Louisiana

Through the tallest sugarcane
on the fastest feet
over the wettest mud
with the newest creatures
until I am at home
—Brooklyn, 5th grade

The Innocent Mouse

in the classroom
nearby kids on top of their desks
inside the cabinet, scratching
out he comes
across the room
beyond the bathroom
under the desks
as the kids try to escape
from the tragedy
except he only wanted paper
—Keana, 6th grade

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The prairie inspires artists and writers.

The prairie inspires artists and writers.


Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

This weekend I was invited to read at a festival in Arnaudville, a small town about 40 miles north of New Iberia. The drive to Arnaudville along Highway 31 follows the curving Bayou Teche. Years ago, I drove this same highway to a fiction writing workshop. It was in this workshop that I wrote the first chapter of Blessen. The workshop took place in NuNu’s, an arts collective with a performance area and a cafe in the back. The building sat on a high ridge near the bayou. A few years ago, the place burned. Now Nunu’s is housed down the highway in a large old lumber company building. Walking into the place, you step back in time on long leaf pine floors and high ceilings. You look out onto endless rice fields. I felt a sentimental connection to this birthplace of my first novel. And it was here that I connected with new friends who write.

Clare Martin organized the event in conjunction with the Fire and Water Festival “Le Feu et l’Eae.” (All festivals in South Louisiana have French names.) She titled the readings, “Words of Fire, Words of Water.” I felt privileged to be among the readers. Clare read from her recent book of poetry, Eating the Heart First. I felt an immediate connection to this woman who has turned her grief into beautiful poetry. Talking to her after the reading, I shared something about not expecting to sell many books that day. (I sold 6! A good day!) Her response was so encouraging.

Each success no matter how small in practice of what I love is a lightning strike against the dark.

I loved this! Another woman-writer-friend, Chere’ Coen, (See her blog post about the event.) gave me a Gris Gris bag for courage. And guess what symbol it had on it? A lightning bolt! More synchronicity.

The gris gris bag for courage with Clare's book of poetry, my prizes from Words of Fire, Words of Water.

The gris gris bag for courage with Clare’s book of poetry, my prizes from Words of Fire, Words of Water.

Traveling home from the lovely day in Arnaudville, (not to mention, after a delicious catfish po-boy, hazelnut latte, and double-chocolate cake ball) I felt full. I was full of the spirit that brings us life and creativity and art.

2012-12-01 13.48.09

This poem by Clare L. Martin moved me to tears:

ICE TO WATER

The hospital room is cool.
There are moths in your breath.

Circled in ice, you’re enwrapped in white fire.
Coffee-colored urine drains in a bag.

I swab your lips with lemon glycerin.
Your pulse beeps loss. I buzz a nurse out of the void.

I cannot watch you die.
The doctor scowls at my cowardliness.

Stunted from birth, plucked too early—
You were wingless.

It took me years to believe it wasn’t my fault
you despaired in an infant’s life.

I choose blue for the burial
like the thunderhead in your eyes.

The undertaker powders the fine
hairs of your face, seals you in secret.

First published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature
Reprinted by permission from the author

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Pointillist

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Amy at The Poem Farm.

My father, John Gibson, created this drawing using pointillism. He creates a different image each Christmas for my parents’ Holiday greeting card.

The Pointillist

Patiently sitting at the drawing table,
he taps the paper as if strumming an instrument.
The music he creates comes forth
not in lines and shapes, but in shades
of dark and light.

This artist does not draw or paint.
He plays the dots, drumming them out
point by point.
What emerges is nothing short of miraculous,
like the first moving pixel on the television screen.

I marvel at the realism.
I could reach out and touch the cow.
The bed of straw even smells like a barn.
He places me there, at the birth scene,
waiting with Mary.

–Margaret Simon

The Pointillist is an ekphrastic poem, a poem about art. More about this style of poetry can be found at Poets.org.

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Thanku

Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Last week, Thanksgiving week, I was introduced to the “thanku,” a haiku thank you poem. Today, I introduced the idea to my students. Since I teach gifted kids, I had to give them a challenge. Since haiku originally was a style of poetry that not only used a set syllable pattern (5,7,5), but also used the theme of nature, I asked them to include a metaphorical use of nature. And, of course, I modeled with my own poem. This one I wrote for a friend.

Sunflowers open
to see the world around us
like your heart to mine.

Some of my students took on the challenge. Most of them chose to write to teachers. It was sweet watching them type up their poems, find just the right graphic, and print them out to give to their favorite teachers. At the very end of the day, Kylon slipped me this little gift of a thanku. My heart melted.

The seed of a rose
You sprout your knowledge like roots
We share our petals.

Link to Teaching Authors two weeks of thanks

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More Thanks

Link to Teaching Authors two weeks of thanks

Yesterday my 14 year old niece interviewed me for her journalism class. While my family around me wondered why she would choose me to interview, I felt privileged that she asked me…as an author. Her questions were good. They made me really think, and I enjoyed telling her about this journey. She asked me when I knew I wanted to be a writer. I told her the story about finding my diary from 1975 when I was her age. (See this post.) When she asked what advice I would give to students who would like to be writer, I said surround yourself with people who affirm and support you.

Today, for the Two weeks of Thanksgiving, I am writing a thanku for all of my people who support this crazy writing life.

How the live oaks stand
On roots of strength and caring
I am blessed by you.

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Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

On the Two Writing Teachers blog this morning, I found these quotes:

“Walk through life like a writer.” –Lucy Calkins
“Tell the truth about your life and what’s really going on.” –Georgia Heard
“We know the truth of ordinary life events. Everything doesn’t end with ‘happily ever after’.” –Georgia Heard

I needed to hear all three. My ankle hurts. In our family when you complain like this, we call you (me) the “Bo-bo queen.” Something about annoying pain of an integral body part has made me thus. I am grateful for my new doctor-friend who fixed me up yesterday with an ankle brace and some powerful anti-inflammatory drugs. But I struggled with a blog post for this Tuesday slice because I didn’t want to whine, but I was unable to come up with something to write about. And then, this morning I read the wise words from Georgia Heard, “Tell the truth about your life and what’s really going on.” So I’m here letting you know that my ankle hurts.

But also, I am thankful.

Teens from St. Barnabas youth group gave out candy-filled mugs in holiday wrap.

Every Tuesday morning I serve at our church’s outreach mission, Solomon House. This morning was filled with joy. Teens from a youth group showed up with bins full of mugs wrapped in holiday wrapping to give out to the clients. The clients lined up all along the sidewalk. Each of them greeted me with kindness. What do I have to complain about? Nothing. The truth is there are many hurting people out there. They heart in mind, body, and spirit. I can look them in the eye with true love and gratefulness.

Another slicer, Linda B. at Teacher Dance, introduced me to the thanku movement led by Teaching Authors. A thanku is a haiku of thanks. Here is my attempt to capture the morning:

Many hands spread joy
Many hands give thanks for you
Walk your path in peace,
knowing this.

Link to Teaching Authors two weeks of thanks

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